


(This, Between Us) is Waiting for You to Start

by isuilde



Category: Yuri!!! on Ice (Anime)
Genre: Alternate Timelines, F/M, Fluff, Friends to Lovers, Pining
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2018-07-03
Updated: 2018-07-03
Packaged: 2019-06-01 19:35:07
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,022
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/15150323
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/isuilde/pseuds/isuilde
Summary: The first time you saw him, he was eight and you were barely nine, and he nearly runs you over on the ice. You grow as friends, after, trotting together after practice at the local ice rink, sharing hot drinks and discussing the day’s practice or watching taped videos of figure skaters. He thought the both of you should go into ice dancing and be partners, but you laughed and told him your dream is higher and therefore you had to skate individually.It was the first time he got his heart broken, you found out almost five years later. The second was when the car accident happened, effectively ruining his figure skating career, and reducing him to a simple skating coach at one of the lesser known skating rink in Moscow.





	(This, Between Us) is Waiting for You to Start

**Author's Note:**

  * For [Ayu_Go](https://archiveofourown.org/users/Ayu_Go/gifts).



> A commission for glasshook @ Twitter, who asked for Victor/OFC; “Let’s play a game in which you never win: catching my lips with yours.”
> 
> Thank you so much for commissioning and helping me! I hope this short ficlet is to your liking!

“In another world,” you murmur, as he dips you low—so low that you think you could feel the frozen wisps of ice inches away from the back of your head. “We could be lovers.”

Victor’s lips curve into a smile, and you can almost see how your words dance over his lips, tempting him to lean down and finally begin—whatever it is between both of you. His hand, reassuringly steady and strong on the small of your back, lingers on the line of your waist as you straighten and leave his arms, into a smooth twirl and then a perfect single lutz right on the last tinkle of a piano note.

You watch his steps, light and beautiful on the ice where only you and him exist. Watch his unfaltering smile, the unruffled look in his eyes as he closes the short distance between you and him. “In another world,” he says, plays along to the tune of your flute, and it’s both exhilarating and frustrating, the way he only plays but refuses to really take your baits. “We could be rivals.”

Your smile is sharp. “The fiercest.”

His smile is a challenge. “Nemesis.”

——-o0o——-

The first time you saw him, he was eight and you were barely nine, and he nearly runs you over on the ice. You grow as friends, after, trotting together after practice at the local ice rink, sharing hot drinks and discussing the day’s practice or watching taped videos of figure skaters. He thought the both of you should go into ice dancing and be partners, but you laughed and told him your dream is higher and therefore you had to skate individually.

It was the first time he got his heart broken, you found out almost five years later. The second was when the car accident happened, effectively ruining his figure skating career, and reducing him to a simple skating coach at one of the lesser known skating rink in Moscow.

“I could make this my home rink,” you tell him, in-between swivelling your way through little kids with him keeping a perfect pace along your side. “Since you refuse to work at my home skating rink. Honestly, Vitya, you know there are girls who would still love to see you on the ice, even if it’s just to horde stumbling children around the rink.”

Your arm brush against his—a calculated tease, just to remind him slightly that there is something between the both of you that is still waiting to be started, if only he would begin. Except he snags your hand, twirls you into his own arms, half-traps you within them, and says, “I have enough girls coming.”

Your face, irritatingly, heats as you inwardly curse how unruffled Victor always is, even in front of someone he has loved for years. “The only girls that come here is Franziska and I.”

Victor smiles happily, simply, and you _feel_ his next word breathed against your nose rather than hear it: “Exactly.”

And Franziska is the married one. “This is why you have no girlfriend,” you tell him, proud that your voice only barely shiver as you smoothly flit around and out of the cage of his arms. You hear him chuckle, a pretty sound in the air, and for the umpteenth time, remind yourself that you’re too proud to admit that you’re in love—have been for a long time—with this silly man who will piggyback a child across the ice.

You’ll wait. Until he begins.

——-o0o——-

“You’re going out with Victor, right?” is how everyone, basically, asks, and every time, you have to swallow a laugh and remember not to say: _I wish_.

“He wishes,” you answer instead, the one time he’s around to hear both the question and answer. He laughs breezily in reply, and then, infuriatingly, agrees.

“I wish.”

——-o0o——-

“I wanted to dance with you on the ice,” he whispers into the scant air that separates your nose and his. “I hate that I can’t.”

“Oh, Vitya,” you say, and when his eyes flutter close, when he tilts his head and begins to lean down, you let him angle itjust enough to let your lips meet the tip of his nose instead. He looks half-disappointed, when he pulls away, but you know better. This is a game you both have played for years. There is too much uncertainty that lies beyond the point of endgame—one that he knows not to face.

Not you, though. Because tonight, you’ve had enough waiting.

The breath you share with him smells like expensive vodka. “Hey,” you say, and see the word dance teasingly just off the corner of Victor’s lips. “Let’s play that game in which you never won.”

And you lean forward, oh-so-carefully presses a soft kiss right where the word still skittering a breath away from the corner of Victor’s lips.

The shade of red that spreads to the tips of his cheeks is as exquisite as his last quadruple loop, burned into your memory even after years of not seeing it. You smile, because that is definitely not only from the alcohol in his system.

“What game,” he breathes, and it’s so infuriating, the way he tries to gather his bearings and continue this game despite the clear fact that none of you is the winner.

So you tilt his head just-so and finally capture his lips with a soft hum, the kiss long but soft enough in a way dreams are. When you pull back, his eyes are still closed, and you wonder if he’s scared to open them.

“That one game where you try catching my lips with yours,” each word carved against his lips, almost teasingly fleeting. “I just let you win.”

——-o0o——-

Victor doesn’t propose with a ring. He does it with only a single red rose, and a question:

“If I am to return to the ice competitively,” he says, “will you be my ice dancing partner?”

You kiss the the tips of his outstretched fingers. “Vitya,” you smile around his name. “We’ll make it to the World’s next year.”

**——-o0o——-**

**Author's Note:**

> If you like my writing, check out my twitter @ isuilde!


End file.
